


warmth

by ossapher



Series: The Macaroniverse -- Lams Modern AU [19]
Category: American Revolution RPF
Genre: (probably literally at this point?), Aftermath of Violence, Fluff, Introspective John, being an old married couple, soft Lams, the gentlest of hurt/comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-05
Updated: 2018-09-05
Packaged: 2019-07-07 11:51:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15907716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ossapher/pseuds/ossapher
Summary: Years after being shot in the line of duty as an EMT, John reflects on the consequences.I promise, it's much fluffier than it sounds.





	warmth

**Author's Note:**

> This is the last in a series of related works, all having to do with John and the physical sensations he experiences in the aftermath of being shot. I hope you've enjoyed them! Many thanks to [a-classic-fool](https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_classic_fool/pseuds/a_classic_fool) for her always-excellent and extraordinarily fast beta work.

Today is implausible. It’s late October, almost midnight, and he’s only just freed himself from his tux. He can hear Alex brushing his teeth in the miniature day spa that is the Ritz-Carlton bathroom as he watches the raindrops sliding down the hotel room window, obscuring his view of the lampposts and bare trees of Central Park. His aching shoulder informs him that the rain’s going to turn to snow overnight. Alex’s crystal plaque, engraved with the words _American Bar Association Award for Distinguished Public Service_ , sits on the desk on top of the room service menu.

None of that is the implausible part. Alex is a genius and the only surprising thing about him getting this award is that he didn’t get it earlier. And maybe it's a little surprising that the Bar put them up at the Ritz, but John figures they’re shameless elitists, so he wasn't exactly stunned by that one either. Oh, no. The implausible part is that today John turned fucking _forty_.

“You okay, babe?” Alex comes up behind John smelling of toothpaste and wraps his arms around his middle.

“Oh, you know me. Existentializing.” John rubs his shoulder absentmindedly. “I guess I’m old now.”

“Mmm, I like you old. Is your shoulder bothering you? Want an Advil?” Alex asks.

“Naw, I haven’t eaten recently, I'll get heartburn.”

“Oh, yes, of course. Because you’re old.”

John turns and shoves him backwards into their plush king-sized bed. Alex, in a ridiculous display for a man so supposedly distinguished, somersaults awkwardly back into a lounging pose with a saucy grin. All he's missing is a rose between his teeth. He waggles his eyebrows.

“No way. Don't think you're getting away with calling me old that easily,” John teases, walking past the foot of the bed and into the bathroom. There's a fresh towel already laid out, so he turns on the water to the shower, steam rapidly fogging the mirrors.

“You called yourself old first!” Alex's protest comes muffled by the bathroom door.

“That's my public interest litigator of the year,” John chuckles.

Alex subsides after that, or at least decides to bide his time, and John loses himself in his evening routine, taking a quick shower, then brushing and flossing his teeth, then going through a series of stretches to keep his shoulder— well, _loose_ is a strong word, but at least not completely frozen in one position. He does them automatically, unthinkingly, like he has every night for the past fifteen-odd years, but something about the night—the cold, the occasion—makes him pause, snags him on the rough edges of memory.

He remembers being twenty-four and coming home from the hospital, bundled into the back of a cab and praying for the future to hurry up and take his pain away. The future’s here, and it has and it hasn’t. Pain is a part of his life now, the grimace into his coffee on cold winter mornings, the edge to his wakefulness through aching winter nights. But it’s other things, too: the way he watches new passengers on the subway carefully, spotting anyone who might be suffering for a seat; the steadying hand he extends to strangers now who might once have frustrated him with their frailties. John can't say that he's comfortable with human weakness— his own weakness—but over the years, pain has helped him grow patience for others’ flaws—and slowly, slightly, some measure of acceptance for his own. He's glad he faced it with Alex by his side. Glad it happened when he had physical therapists, and a regular therapist, and friends, and colleagues, and yes, even his dad there to help.

But mostly Alex.

He notices, as he returns to the bedroom, that Alex isn’t there. That’s not a cause for concern—he might have gotten a phone call and stepped out so John could sleep, or maybe just had an attack of restlessness and left to pace the plush, carpeted halls. Alex ranges far, sometimes very far. But he always comes back.

John yanks back the bed’s tight-tucked comforter and slips between perhaps the softest, smoothest sheets he’s ever felt in his life. He closes his eyes, the bed growing warm beneath him.

A moment later a light falls on John’s face, and he sleepily opens one eye. Alex is silhouetted in the doorframe to the hallway, some kind of dishcloth-like thing in his hand. “Hey,” John says, making to rise, but Alex waves him back down, padding across the floor to him and leaning over. He looks John in the eyes for a long second before going in for a kiss, and just like that, John’s heart is fluttering. Insane, after all this time together, that Alex can still make him feel so special so effortlessly.

Without a word, Alex comes around the bed and burrows under the covers behind John, brushing a hand over his ribs and bringing it up to squeeze his shoulder. His relationship with Alex, of course, is the greatest thing that came out of those weeks and months of pain. But John wonders sometimes if they’d have lasted as long and as well as they have without the mark those months left on John. He wonders if he’d ever have been able to understand as well the roots of Alex’s drive and his anxieties (two sides of the same coin) if they hadn’t had that shared memory of waking blearily in the hospital, sixteen years apart, and thinking, _huh, I’m still alive?_ If Alex would have been as comfortable opening up about his own traumas without knowing that John had trauma of his own. He wonders if he’d be able to appreciate the sheer ferocity of Alex’s advocacy for others without having once received it himself. And sometimes, sadly, he wonders if Alex, as insecure as he is brilliant, would ever have considered himself worthy of the love of someone who owes him less than John does. But if helping John made Alex more secure, more able to accept his own happiness, well—John can swallow his pride for that. It’s not perfect, but it’s functional, and considering what they’ve both been through, together and apart, that’s a goddamn miracle.

“You’re going to bed early,” he observes, as Alex snuggles in close behind him. He's grown used to the sight of Alex at his desk, typing away quietly at some memorandum or case briefing into the grey hours of the morning.

“Mhm. Brought you something.”

There’s a rustle under the covers, and a moment later a heating pad settles on John’s shoulder.

“Brilliant man,” he murmurs, the relief soaking into his bones. “I can’t believe you remembered to pack one.” Effortless, he’d thought earlier. But that’s not true. Nothing in life is effortless—though Alex makes the nigh-impossible look easy, whether that be passing a hopeless bill, defending a hopeless case, or loving a hopeless headcase like John Laurens. But if there’s a single thing that the example of Alex’s life has taught John, it’s that nothing is as hopeless as it seems, that no cause is ever completely lost. Not even John's, no matter how dark it may have seemed. Incredible man, incredible, _brilliant_ man, to have let John love him...

“They had them at the front desk.”

“Oh. Well, thanks for thinking of me.” John’s voice is hoarse, suddenly, with love.

“Always, John.” Alex’s weight shifts, and John knows from long experience a kiss is coming. He turns his head and accepts it on his lips, lingering for just a moment before settling back into Alex’s arms. “Always.”


End file.
